


All Hope Abandoned

by Ankha



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Accusations, Angst, Heartbreak, M/M, Might need tissues/induces crying, idiocy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ankha/pseuds/Ankha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We have all contemplated the various scenarios of why John Watson would leave Sherlock Holmes, but could he be driven away? Could John Watson do something so vile that his very presence would rile the consulting detective to shatter the man that had withstood the Afghan war and Reichenbach? </p>
<p>Because he does--shatter him. </p>
<p>Peek into the journals of the two men during a time in their lives that only the few players that were involved know about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> This story was my baby for a very long time and I wanted to share it here too. Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Ch. 1-The Discovery

It was some six months ago that my husband and I purchased this quaint little cottage in the countryside. Both of us had tired of the hustle and bustle of life in London and here we might raise children in relative peace. But I am delaying the start of the tale.  


It was a little over a month ago when my husband was repairing one of the cottage walls that he ran across a much battered tin case. It took some effort to pry it open, for time had rusted it shut, but the effort was quite worth it when several journals, perfectly preserved, proved to be its contents. Upon seeing this, Tobias handed them over to my care as he could not decipher their scribbles and I, an English scholar, might have more luck. I was grateful for the distraction for he had refused to allow me to help with this stage of the restoration. Setting myself up in our bedroom, I had only managed a quick glance at the yellowed page and faded ink when my screams brought my husband to my side. With some concern, he drew one of my hands to his and asked what was the matter. My other hand, which was not held prisoner, trembled something awful as I pointed to the faded signature and date at the bottom of the page. Tobias lifted the journal from my lap and released my hand in favor of the magnifying glass I kept close at hand. When he finally determined what had made me scream, he too paled, for there, at the bottom of the fragile page was:  


**John H. Watson 1894**

__

  


We looked at one another and I just knew that our thoughts were a mirror. We had bought the cottage of the Great Detective and his Boswell.

  


~~~

  


I believe that it was some time before either of us could recover and when we did we discussed what we must do with such an enormous find. It was eventually decided that we would present our discovery to the public after, as my Tobias insisted, I had transcribed the nearly illegible scribbles. Who knew what tales might lie within, but I was hesitant, at least, on the point of making them public. What were the contents of these pages that they must be sealed away from prying eyes in a wall? Tobias conceded my point but was quite insistent on the matter of my transcribing the works. Only I, he insisted, would be able to handle such a feat, and do so faithfully. While he undoubtedly exaggerates, I certainly appreciated the sentiment and was flattered by his belief in me. It was only after he had left me to my enormous task, that I began to flip through the pages with care and realized that this was not just another tale of the Great Detective’s cases, but a private journal of the doctor’s. That, at least, shed some light on the subject of why it was hidden away so, but still, what sort of secret did they conceal? Abandoning the first journal, I moved on to the others and found that the next two followed along in a similar vein and were, I determined, in the doctor’s scrawl. It was the remaining slim green volumes that showed another hand all together. They showed the hand of the Great Detective and were a quite a bit easier to read for their neatness of script. If there was ever any doubt as to the doctor’s occupation, one only had to view a sample of his handwriting for their doubts to be banished. After a brief comparison of dates, I realized that the two sets of journals ran parallel to one another and therefore picked up the detective’s first. I was sure that the contents would allow me to better interpret the doctor’s scribbles but nothing could have prepared me for the opening line.

  


**“I have finally succeeded in doing what I had thought impossible. I have driven my Watson away.”**

__

The journal dropped from my nerveless fingers. Driven Watson away? But that just wasn’t possible. History had clearly shown the doctor remaining faithfully by the detective’s side since their first meeting in 1881 through marriages, deaths, and even Reichenbach Falls. No indication had ever been given that the doctor had willing been separated, nay, driven from Holmes’s side. By all accounts the two had died together in their cottage, this cottage, some years after World War I, though no one had determined the precise date. By that point the two had bowed out of the public eye and the world had let them, too intent on rebuilding itself after such a devastating event. No one even knew where they were buried.

  


Picking up the journal again, I shut it with great care. Perhaps it would be best, despite the headache it would likely give me, to begin with Dr. Watson’s account of the event.

  


Now, after two months worth of long hours and bitterly shed tears, I present to you, dear reader, the combined accounts of the tragic separation of the detective and his doctor as told by the men themselves. I have done my best to be as faithful as possible, but, dear reader, take into account that this is a private journal. It was never meant to be read by the public, so you might find Dr. Watson’s writing somewhat different than what you are accustomed to.


	2. The Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is from the journal of Dr. Watson.

Chapter 2-The Incident

July 27, 1894

It is a day that I am unlikely to forget no matter how grey my hair or feeble my mind may become. It has been some two weeks now since it happened and my hand is barely steady enough to place the recollections down on paper. My former colleague would no doubt sneer and point out all of the inherent risks that come with placing such an event, especially in regard to my thoughts and feelings on the subject, down on paper, but I find that I am driven to do so. Cut off as I am from those I might discuss such a delicate topic if I were so inclined and permanently estranged from my past colleague, I am quite adrift. If I do not commit this to paper then it is all together possible that I might lose what tenuous hold on my sanity that I have.

It started off as so many other black moods my past colleague was prone to during the lull between cases that I thought nothing of it at first but endeavored to do my best to draw him from it. A task that is on the level of the twelve tasks of Hercules and, in my opinion, trickier and more delicate than all of them combined. It was rapidly approaching the middle of July and the ever-present fog that lay above London descended to engulf the city and its inhabitants, obscuring even the sun in a slightly brown haze. Holmes had declared to the world some two months past that he continued to dwell among the living while his foe, Professor James Moriarity, had met both his mental and physical match in the detective and lay at the bottom of those blasted falls as proof.

I did not tell Holmes, for yes I must be able to write his name, that there were times when the mere sight of water being poured made me violently ill. I did not tell him of how I still woke screaming as if it would drown out the roar of Reichenbach, whose sound seemed permanently etched in my brain. I did not tell him that, at times, I would have rather cut off both my hands than return to my own lodgings. Even with all the time that had passed, some nine weeks, I was loathed to be separated from his side.

So it was that I was quietly helping my patients to find other doctors or informing the ones that would have none of that, that I would be moving soon.

“Back to Baker Street, eh Dr. Watson?” Mr. Kelspar’s eyes fairly twinkled under his bushy grey brows. “I dare say Mr. Holmes will be glad of that.”

I laughed along with him but some part of me whispered doubt. Despite what I thought of as a joyful reunion, something was out of place. We did not fall back into the easy companionship we once had, but that could be explained away considering the three year absence we had had from one another. But still, I took heart that time would heal the wound of our separation.

I could not have been more wrong. Indeed, time spent together only made things worse, though it was not until after The Incident as I have since dubbed it, that I realized as much.

It was a particularly dreadful Saturday afternoon when I ended my rounds and allowed the cab to take me to Baker Street instead of my own lodgings. Despite the fact that I would likely find Holmes deep in that black mood that had consumed him these last six days, I longed to see him at the end of such a wretched day. I knew that his mere presence would drive away the panic that arose in my breast if I were away from his side for too long. It was irrational and illogical and there was little doubt that Holmes would have mocked me for it, but what could I do? It was fear, and fear is never rational or logical, but it was assuaged somewhat when I sat in my old arm chair across from him even if a word never passed his lips in the entirety of my visit.

Perhaps it was my need, nay, my hunger for him that finally drove him to speak what lay within his heart. It has always been my first and greatest fear that he should deduce exactly how deep my regard for him truly ran. It passed that of an intimate friend and colleague, passed that of a brother, passed all that is considered decent and, if discovered, earn me some time in the gaols. That is, if I were to act upon it. There was small chance of that for I knew that I would lose something far more precious to me than my freedom or reputation. I would lose Holmes.

Strange that I have lost him anyway.

I paid the cab driver and dragged myself up the seventeen steps to the sitting room. The recent dampness combined with all of today’s activity was playing merry hell with my shoulder and leg. I wanted nothing more than to stretch before the fire with a stout brandy and Holmes near at hand. I found him, as I predicted, deep into that black mood and, yet, my heart lightened to see that spare figure drawn up into what I had privately termed his “thinking pose” with his knees under his chin, clasped tightly to his stomach and blue smoke from his strong shag tobacco curling like lazy vines around his head. I called out a greeting but received no response save the vague tightening around the eyes. It was not until I passed to his right side that the smile dropped from my face.

“Good heavens, Holmes, what the devil happened to you?” Again I received no response. Kneeling on the floor beside the settee, I visually inspected the damage. He sported an impressive black eye that had to be as painful as it was colorful. Another bruise blossomed just under his cheek and I wondered if he had not lost a tooth in whatever matter he had tangled himself up in. Now that I was closer, the fire highlighted what it had previously hidden in shadow: a long, thin line across his throat that admitted just the barest trickle of blood, but was, nevertheless, enough to stain his shirt collar. He did not acknowledge my presence or even so much as look in my direction as I performed this part of my exam. Indeed, I thought he might be wholly unaware of me if it were not for what happened next. I opened my bag to retrieve a disinfectant and lifted my hand to cradle the side of his face.

I never made contact.

Holmes sprang to life, slapping my hand aside and toppling both me and my bag to the floor in his haste to get away. “Cease your molly coddling, Doctor, for I will have none of it!”

I stared at him in open astonishment and I dare say that I must have looked frightfully ridiculous with my mouth gaped open as it was. “Holmes?”

“How anyone with such a cold, unfeeling, and clumsy touch ever found success as a physician is beyond even my power to deduce. You are better suited as a butcher than a surgeon.”

I could not rise for his words had rooted me in place. What was this? Had he…oh God in heaven above, please let him not have discovered…

“God as my witness, if you should ever attempt to lay a hand on even my shirt cuff ever again, I shall knock you flat, of that you can be sure, Doctor.” The pure mockery of my title sent ice through my veins and I begin to shiver despite the fire so close at hand.

“And do not think for one instant that it has escaped me as to what you are doing.” Slowly he began to stalk towards me, reminding me too much of a tiger who was cornering its prey. “You are slowly farming out your patients to others in the hopes of closing your practice and moving back in with me.” With each step his voice had risen until he was close to shouting as he stood over me. Lifting one foot, he knocked me the rest of the way to floor and dug his heal into my wounded shoulder, sending jolts of agony throughout my entire body. At my gasp of pain, he let out a laugh. I always treasured the sound of his laughter, for it was rare and each instance was precious to me. But this one…my chest seized up at the sound, but the pain had nothing to do with my shoulder.

“I say again, _Doctor_ , I will have none of it! Three years I managed to escape the oppressiveness of your nature and yet it has returned ten-fold! So you may do with your practice and your lodgings as you wish but do not think that you will find a place here with me! I can take it no more!”

There are no words in the English language, or any language, that can adequately describe how I was feeling at that moment. Thrice I have lain down my pen and reached for my brandy though I have managed little of it, considering the shaking of my hand. There is not much I remember after this. I know that I must have picked myself up and removed myself from the sitting room. If I spoke to Holmes, I do not know, but I have some recollection of telling Mrs. Hudson goodbye, something I had once promised her that I would not do unless I had no intention of ever returning. I believe she led me down the stairs and to the street but there my remembrances of her end. I must have proceeded on foot but I could not have had any destination in mind other than to get away. It was not until I had literally run into a solid chest that I came somewhat back to myself.

“Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson, are you well, sir?” It was a voice that I knew well, but it was some seconds before I could force my eyes to focus on the face that swam before me. It was Lestrade. “Doctor, are you drunk?” He leaned forward to sniff my breath but nothing but water had passed my lips that day. “Perhaps we had best take a ride to Baker Street, Doctor, so we can get you straightened out.”

The mention of Baker Street did what nothing else had.

“No!” My shout attracted those few who were still on the street. “I cannot, you must not, no!”

It is clear now that my incoherent rambling disturbed the inspector, for he drew me from the street to a nearby alley and propped me against wall away from prying eyes and ears. “Dr. Watson! Watson!” I continued to murmur “no” under my breath and once more ignored him. “Forgive me, Doctor,” he whispered before delivering a resounding slap across my cheek.

The shock allowed me to focus on the worried inspector. “Lestrade?” It was barely a breath of a word.

“Thank God, Doctor, you were truly beginning to frighten me. Now, calmly, tell me what’s happened. Why don’t you want to go back to Baker Street?”

Where do I begin? How do I begin? Could I? At this point, I could not force myself to repeat the vitriol that had passed my detective’s lips. I opened my mouth to try and explain but all that emerged was, “Holmes,” and I was horrified to feel hot tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.

Lestrade’s gaze only grew more concerned. “Did something happen to Mr. Holmes?” When all I did was shake my head and repeat Holmes’s name under my breath, the police inspector shook me. “Doctor, you must pull yourself together man! What has happened to Mr. Holmes?”

Even as I tried to do as Lestrade commanded, my breath hitched with each deep inhalation, threatening to send the tears spilling over. Some time had passed but the police inspector was nothing if not patient. Finally I mastered myself enough to spit out, “I am no longer welcome,” before my control once more slipped and one tear escaped.

Even if my context was not entirely clear, Lestrade divined its deeper meaning, perhaps even better than I had intended. His eyes widened ever so slightly before his entire face hardened. “Don’t worry, Doctor, you just come with me.”

Bundling me close (why had I not realized that I was shivering? Shock, of course), we emerged onto the street and he hailed a cab. Hustling me inside, he rapped on the top and called “Diogenes Club!” before settling beside me instead of across. With no word of explanation, he once more drew me close. And just as a child would take such comfort from a parent when his heart was broken, so did I from Lestrade. At the time I gave no thought as to why he would do such a thing, or even how he had sensed a deeper meaning behind my simple words. Thought was beyond me; I had indeed descended into shock, but the numbness that accompanied it was a welcome respite from the tumultuous emotions from The Incident. But it was all a lie; this non-feeling would not last and I greatly feared that the storm I had experience earlier would increase a thousand-fold in proportions once released.

End of Ch. 2


	3. The Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness, life has been incredibly busy! 
> 
> Here we are at the first Holmes entry. Just so you know, the events reviewed in this chapter happen farther back than those of Watson's. It might be a bit difficult to follow at first, but just remember, Holmes is trying to explain to you why he has done what he has done. So for him it is all leading up to The Incident. At least, for now.

 

 

 

**Ch. 3-The Reason**

 

July 20, 1894

 

I have finally succeeded in doing what I thought impossible. I have driven my Watson away. I find it ironic that with his absence I am driven to do the one thing I would scold him for doing: I am plying pen to paper and placing this account within the handsome green volumes that my dear Watson had gifted me with the Christmas before I took my leave of him at Reichenbach. I cannot help but do this, for, if I do not, I will dive straight back into the cocaine bottle and never crawl out again.

 

But I digress and am guilty of doing the one thing I implore my clients not to do and have started in the middle. I suppose it is of little consequence for even though it would be a crime, I will need to burn these journals upon my completion of the account.

 

But then, I suppose the reason for my digression is that I do not know precisely where to begin. I cannot accurately trace the origin of my feelings for Watson, only that I remember one day during the beginning of his first marriage when he had stopped for a visit. We both were seated before the fire and I was regaling him with the details of a recent case. While I will be the first to point out that logic and deduction are always at the forefront of my thoughts when they pertain to a case, when it comes to Watson, the showman rears his head and I spin my tales for his romantic tastes.

 

It was the laugh that was my downfall.

 

Just as I presented the humorous climax of my story, Watson let out the clearest, heartiest laugh I had ever heard him or any other utter. No doubt I am biased, but the sheer beauty of the sound stole my breath. He was a sight to behold. Light from the lamps and fire highlighted the light blond hair (I always suspected that he was completely white-headed as a child), the green eyes sparkled with mirth, and that robust frame heaved as he revealed in his amusement. My heart, which I hitherto believed to be dead when it came to such matters, swelled and I was quite unable to speak for some time. So long was I silent that Watson’s amusement fled and he drew to my side in concern when I failed to respond to his inquires. It was only when he laid a hand on my wrist to check my pulse that I returned to my senses. I wasted no time in hustling him out of the room and back to his wife.

 

That was the first time I truly lost myself in the cocaine bottle.

 

Before this I had only toyed with the use of this addictive drug, but now that I had discovered something much more addictive, I could barely stop my hands from shaking long enough to press the plunger home once I located a vein.

 

It was some time before I returned to myself but thankfully Mrs. Hudson, whom by the tidiness of the room was very worried indeed, had not fetched Watson. I believe that I may have commanded her not to and even in my drugged states I can be rather imperious. In order to escape these newfound revelations, I dressed and disappeared into the very bowels of the city itself, not returning for almost a week. By my return I had resolved that Watson should never know of my feelings and that in order to keep my mind free of the shackles of these useless emotions I would slowly extract Watson from my side. It was a task that should have been accomplished with relative ease considering his nuptials.

 

I am afraid that it was not so simple and all together painful. I took cases that took me away from London, even away from England, but it was of little use. Watson was always there when I returned with an eager but sympathetic ear. For him I have put on some of my very best shows and my very worst performances. There is little doubt that he has remarked upon my strange mood swings within his writings. Oh, if he only knew that he was the cause of many of my “black moods” as has so termed them! He would no doubt be horrified that I have considered conducting an experiment on what causes me to crave the cocaine more—his presence or absence.

 

For years I dwelled in this hell which was only made worse by the death of his first wife. Of course, I encouraged him to return to Baker Street and once more take his lodgings with me. How could I not open my arms to him in his time of grief? A colder man than I would have thought nothing of providing empty sympathy, but when it comes to my Watson, the emotion was all too real. To distract him, I once more asked him to accompany me on my cases and to my delight I had some measure of success in drawing him from his grief so that it did not consume him. It was nearly six months before I could trick that hearty laugh from its hiding place and another six before I did not have to.

 

And then came Mary Morstan.

 

A woman more aptly matched for my good doctor I shall never meet again. Not a weak, useless decoration as so many of the women our society produces, but a strong-willed individual tempered by a kind and gentle soul. Unlike the first wife, Miss Mary was always very considerate of my friendship with her husband and never raised one protest when I dragged the good doctor off on some hair-brained, dangerous mission simply because I craved to have him at my side. I always suspected that she divined some deeper meaning to my calling on Watson, but was not until I called and he was not present did she confirm my suspicions.

 

“Come and have tea with me, Mr. Holmes. John will not be home for some time yet.” She drew me into the sitting room, unsuspecting, but still wary as I am with all the fairer sex, save Mrs. Hudson perhaps. I accepted the tea and was shocked to find that it was exactly the way I liked it. “Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Holmes. John has mentioned more than once how you take your tea, just so that if the opportunity ever arose, I would be able to make it for you.” She smiled behind her tea cup. “I was beginning to despair that I would ever be given such a chance.”

 

“My apologies, Miss Mary,” I hastened to reply, “It is just that…”

 

“You find most people to be positively pedestrian and the idea of having to spend an evening making small talk with a virtual stranger over such matters as lace doilies makes you want to shoot something.” My astonishment over this frank assessment must have shown, for she gave a little laugh. “I have had much instruction in your ways from my husband, good sir, and have longed to tell you that you are welcome here at any time and that lace doilies need never be mentioned. I would, in fact, love to hear about some of your cases.” There was that smile again. “If you do not believe that the details will offend my delicate nature.”

 

That tricked a bark of laughter from me, but cold sobriety soon followed as I sat the tea cup aside and leaned forward. “You do not mind that I take him with me, away from you, on potentially dangerous cases? Because, have no doubt, madam, that what I do can be very dangerous and our lives have been threatened more than once.” It was a test, but she had to understand the true gravity of the situation.

 

She only continued to smile. “John would follow you to the very depths of Hell itself to prevent you from coming to harm. Indeed, I believe he has already done that. I could no more force him from your side than I could cut off my own hand, nor would I wish to. He belonged to you, Mr. Holmes, long before I was ever present in his mind or heart. But I know the love that he holds for me keeps good company with the love he holds for you.” Here she paused and laid a delicate hand over one of my own which had clenched into a tight fist during the speech. “And I know that because of your love for him that you will do everything in your power to keep him safe.” She paused again to make sure she had my eye. “Even going so far as to deny yourself his company for propriety’s sake.”

 

I closed my eyes and turned my head, unwilling to believe on some level the double meaning of her supposedly innocent words. No, she could not… Surely I was placing false meanings behind her words.

 

“And why, madam, would I need to deprive myself of my Boswell? His company is a welcome respite to the clients and Scotland Yarders, but certainly not necessary to my existence as you have so implied.”

 

“That remark was unworthy of you, Mr. Holmes, and unworthy of your regard for my husband. But, considering the delicacy of the subject, I can let it pass. I would ask, however, that you not pretend to not understand my meaning.”

 

I gave in then, my head hanging in defeat. It was not often that I was bested by the fairer sex, the name Irene Adler was still fresh in my mind, but Mary Watson had completely dumbfounded me. She had guessed at the truth even though I was quite certain I had kept a tight rein on my affection for Watson. I leapt to my feet, pacing to a fro before the fire even as Miss Mary watched, her gaze inexplicably calm. But how could she not be? She held all of the winning cards to this game. She had no proof of what she spoke, but a dropped comment here, a trifling rumor there and she could ruin me.

 

Or worse, she could tell Watson.

 

That very thought sucked all the air from me and I would have assuredly collapsed straight into the fire had it not been for that woman. She collected me close and deposited me back into my seat before retrieving the brandy and pouring a healthy dollop into my tea and bringing it to my lips. She was right not to trust my hands, for they were shaking terribly. Nevertheless, I secured control of both my cup and my composure once more and looked her squarely in the eye.

 

“You hold my future in your hands, Mrs. Watson,” I addressed her formally. “If you wish me to withdraw from your husband’s company, then I shall endeavor to do my best to honor your request.” I swallowed back the bile that had risen in my throat at the thought of never seeing Watson again.

 

Mary shook her head and clasped my cold face between her warm hands. “How can a love so great and powerful be bad?” She stroked one stony cheek and drew me to her chest. I allowed her to do so. Indeed, I allowed Miss Mary many more liberties than others of her species. She petted my head. “You have suffered for this love that is obvious.” She pulled back and once more our gazes locked. “I would not add to your sufferings, Mr. Holmes, and it was never my intention for you to believe that I would. What I did intend was for you to know and take some measure of comfort in that I understand what John means to you. You are just as much a part of him as he is of you. I know that his first wife did not understand this. Hah! Then she did not understand John and love him as she should have. Splitting you from his side would be like splitting away part of his soul.”

 

She fell momentarily silent after this passionate speech and held my gaze, perhaps searching to see if I believed or even grasped what she spoke of. “There are things that I would have you promise me, Mr. Holmes.” She must have felt my body stiffen for she patted the hand she held. “Only two favors, good sir, and both are well within your power. The first is that you never attempt to cut yourself from John’s life. It would hurt the both of you and I would not have it.”

 

I dared not move. “And the second?”

 

There was more than just a touch of the light-hearted imp in that smile. “That you take tea with John and me here at least once a month.”

 

This tricked another laugh from me, but it was breathy with relief. “As you wish, milady, I will implore all my powers to see that I fulfill your requests.”

 

She adopted a haughty manner. “See that you do, sir.” She broke down in her own laugh and returned to her chair, glancing at the clock. “Now finish your tea, Mr. Holmes. John will be home any time now.”

 

“Will he not be suspicious that a man has come to call when he is not home?” I could not help but tease as I tried to regain the balance that the woman had so easily offset.

 

“Not when the man is you.” That handsome face once more turned serious. “Just a word of warning, Mr. Holmes. Should you ever try to run, I will help John set all the dogs of Hell itself on your heels and I do not care if we have to travel from one end of this great Earth to the other, we will drag you back home where you belong.”

 

I believe that I overcame my shock rather well and raised my tea cup in salute. “Duly noted, Miss Mary.”

  

And so, for a time, I had some measure of contentment. Just as I promised, I did not cut Watson from my life. In fact, I took him on more cases than ever. The thrill was never so great as when he was present to share it with me. I even managed to keep my promise and called on the happy couple at least once a month, if not twice or even three times. It was easy to deduce the delight that Watson derived from my visits and I will admit that I was always on my very best behavior.

 

Even if I took to the cocaine after each visit.

 

For all her kindness, Miss Mary could not have divined that her second request was both a blessing and a curse. I would always seek the opportunity for Watson’s company, of that there is little doubt, but to see him so obviously happy with another was something akin to torture. It was clear that she did not realize this; she had only thought to make her husband, and by extension me, happy. But such kindness is a two-edged sword. Do not misunderstand; I did derive enjoyment form the visits, infrequent though they were. Miss Mary is a delight to speak to and has a sharp mind as well as a sharp tongue that she is unafraid of using. It was when I re-entered my rooms at Baker Street that the loneliness threatened to crush me and I succumbed to the siren song of oblivion promised by the needle.

 

For a time we passed in this manner. I continued to drag Watson into dangerous situations as well as suffer through the more dangerous situation of having tea in his home. I was content, for the most part, to allow the status quo to continue until one afternoon, Watson arrived at Baker Street in a state of nervous agitation. It took some urging on my part to calm him enough so that he could relate what had sent him into such a state. And then he made the announcement that sent my world crashing down around me.

 

Mary was pregnant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er...accidently posted this before I was done with my battle with html, but I won now and its ready! And also..mwhahahaha!


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